Divided Heart
by Freelancer
Summary: Finarfin is reuinited with his daughter at the end of the First Age and struggles to accept her decision to stay behind. Finarfin, Galadriel, Ingwë, Olwë, Celeborn.


Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.  All Tolkien.

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            It was over.  It was finally over.  Finally, it was really, truly over.

            _For me, at any rate,_ Finarfin thought as he found a rock on the outskirts of the camp of the Valar and prepared to clean orc blood off his sword.  The War of Wrath was over.  Morgoth was overthrown and his minions either slain or driven into the depths of the world.  Finarfin, the half-Noldo king of what remained of his father's people in Aman, had led the Noldorin army alongside Eönwë and the lords of the Vanyar and Teleri in the battle, but only because duty called; he, being of a gentle disposition, disliked conflict and only took up arms as a last resort.  There was no other choice this time, and now that it was over, he hoped with all his heart that he would never have to see another battle again.

            Few took notice of the king on the rock wiping black blood off a glittering blade with a rag.  Finarfin had taken momentary leave of his duties and expressed a desire to be alone for a short time.  Around him, others celebrated as they found friends and kinsmen who had not been slain in the battle, but there was no joy for the king.  Word had not yet reached his ears of the fates of his five children who came to Middle-earth with Fëanor so many years ago.  Chance favored the possibility that they were dead, like so many of their kin, but Finarfin could not shake the hope that they were alive somewhere in this strange and cruel world.  If only he could find someone who knew; if only someone who knew still remained.

            Finarfin gave a heavy sigh and looked at his sword.  It was a beautiful sword, or at least it had been before the battle; crafted as a gift for him many years ago by Aulë himself.  It was more a symbol of his power and authority than a weapon, but it served both purposes equally well.  Now the blade was stained with the blood of orc, by the stuff of his enemy whom he had slain.  They were disgusting creatures and he hated them.  He hated their creator above all.  Morgoth killed his father, drove his brothers to madness, broke his family, and divided his entire race.  Finarfin wiped the blade harder, filled with a burning desire to rid his sword of any trace of the filth of Morgoth.  As he did, he realized that he was giving in to his anger and stopped for a moment, looking at the blood that stained the rag.  The blade of his sword gleamed bright and true in the light of the setting sun, free of any trace of that which defiled it.  Finarfin glared at the rag and cast it to the ground.  What point was there in any of it?

            He covered his face with his dirty hands and was still for a moment, allowing his tears to pour silently into his palms.  Eönwë announced earlier that the exiles were to be forgiven and allowed to return to Aman.  To Finarfin, that meant that he would once again be allowed to hear his sons' laughter, see his daughter's smile, and live forever with his family in a land untroubled by suffering and grief.  But his children were nowhere to be found.  He could not hold on to hope much longer.  Sooner or later, it would destroy him.

            _Be strong_, Finarfin told himself, and dropped his hands.  He would have heard by now if they were alive or not.  He could not show weakness.  He had people to lead, who looked to him for their strength.  He had a wife back home whom he would have to comfort when he delivered the news of the deaths of their children.  It was time for his moment of despair to pass and for him to return to his duties.

            He took his sword by the handle and stood up.

            Then he saw her.

            He dropped his sword.

            She was about forty feet away, speaking with one  of the Maiar; Olórin, he guessed.  She was clad in simple, slightly worn traveling clothes, but they may as well have been the robes of a queen, for they did nothing to conceal her graceful movements and noble bearing.  What made him certain was her hair, the locks that captured the very light of Telperion and Laurelin.  It was pulled back and mostly hidden by the hood of her cloak, but the few strands he could see gave everything away.  There had only ever been one with hair like that.  It could only be her… unless it was an illusion formed by the desires of his heart to look upon that face again.

            "Artanis?" he called, only half expecting a response.

            And she turned her head.

            It _was_ her!  Finarfin broke into a run, leaving his sword lying on the ground.  He collided with a Vanya crossing his path halfway, knocking the other down.  Finarfin apologized, offered his hand, and as soon as the Vanya was on his feet again, the king continued his sprint toward his daughter.  She saw and recognized him as well, and when they met, they embraced each other so strongly that they had to spend a few moments catching their breath after they let go.  Both of them had tears of joy streaming down their faces.

            "You're alive!" Finarfin exclaimed, holding his daughter's face in his hands.  "You're alive!"  He seemed unable to say anything else.

            "Not only alive, but living as well," she replied.  "It is so wonderful to see you, Atar!"

            They embraced again, and when they released each other, Finarfin said, "And your brothers?"

            Immediately, the joy left her face, and gaze dropped to the ground.

            Finarfin closed his eyes tightly, bit the inside of his cheek, and nodded.  The news was easier for him to accept since he had been anticipating it, but seeing his daughter alive had ignited a spark of hope that his sons might be, too.  "How?"

            "Finrod was lost in the pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Orodreth in the Battle of Tumhalad, and Angrod and Aegnor in the Dagor Bragollach, the same battle that claimed Fingolfin and so many others."

            Finarfin sighed.  _At least I still have you, my daughter_, he thought.  "I am very glad to see you alive, Artanis," he said.  He smiled.  "Look at you.  You have changed so much, and yet… not at all."

            "I have changed more than you know, Atar," she replied.  "It has been long since anyone called me Artanis, for I took another name when I… after we arrived."

            "Another name?" Finarfin repeated.  "Tell me, my child, what do they call you now?"

            "Galadriel," she answered, and her smoke-grey eyes sparkled for a few moments.  "Oh, there is so much we have to speak of… Olórin has told me naught but a fraction of what has happened in Valinor since our departure.  What of my mother?  Is she well?"

            "Yes, she is well," Finarfin answered, confident that she would be seeing Eärwen soon.  He could not wait until then, though, to hear all the stories Artanis – Galadriel – would certainly have to tell.  "Come to my tent.  We shall speak more there."

            "Where is it?"

            "Near the center of the camp, marked by the Noldorin banner."

            Galadriel nodded.  "I will meet you there shortly.  I would like to speak with Olórin briefly first, and there is someone else I must find before I disappear for any length of time."

            Finarfin agreed to this and went back to pick up his sword before making his way toward his tent.  He was grieved to hear that his sons were dead, but delighted that one of his children still remained.  He knew many others would be glad to hear of the survival of his proud and spirited daughter, too.  When they returned to Aman, he was sure many would want to hear her story.

            When they returned home.

            Finarfin's tent was not empty.  Two others occupied it, the same two who were in there when he left: Ingwë, the Vanyarin High King of the Elves, and Olwë, the lord of the Teleri.  Both were Finarfin's kin as well; Ingwë was Finarfin's uncle, the brother of his mother Indis, and Olwë was the father of his wife.  The gold and silver heads of Ingwë and Olwë were bent over a table in the center of the tent, studying something; Finarfin presumed it to be a map.  Whatever it was, they were so caught up in it that they did not take notice of Finarfin until he joined them at the table.

            "Fascinating, isn't it?"

            The other two looked up, startled at Finarfin's unexpected appearance, but relaxed when they saw that it was him.  "Ah, Finarfin," Ingwë said.  "You look much happier than you did when you left."

            "Did you hear any word of your children?" Olwë asked.  He was concerned about them no less than Finarfin was; they were, after all, his grandchildren.

            "My sons are dead," Finarfin said, and his expression darkened momentarily.  "But some joy has come out of this despairing news, for it was delivered to me by none other than Artanis herself."

            "Artanis?" Ingwë repeated, delight evident in his voice.  "She is alive?"

            Finarfin smiled and nodded.  "Yes."

            Ingwë was beaming.  Olwë looked thrilled as well.  "Will she be coming here?" the Vanya asked.  "I should like very much to see her."

            Finarfin nodded again.  "Yes; she should be here shortly."

            He did not know whether or not Ingwë and Olwë were ready to forgive Galadriel for her acts.  She had, after all, been the only woman among the Noldor to side with Fëanor against the Valar, and though she swore no oath, she was still a key figure in the rebellion, and also, it appeared, one of the few who still remained.  Finarfin could see in his daughter's eyes, though, that her long years in this land had changed her.  Her spirit was still strong, but it was no longer defiant and arrogant; the suffering she endured as an exile had replaced those traits with wisdom, compassion, and dignity.  The Elves could benefit from her in Aman; he only hoped they would be as quick to forgive her as he was.

            Galadriel arrived a few moments later.  The hood of her deep blue cloak was down now, as was her hair, cascading down around her shoulders like a golden waterfall.  Finarfin noticed that this was not the same cloak she had been wearing earlier; that one was green and nowhere near as luxurious.  It was made of velvet, fastened with an ornately carved silver brooch, and looked a bit too large for her, as if it had been made for a man.  He was curious as to where she got it, but it was among the least of his concerns.

            "My child," Finarfin said, smiling and holding out his arms.  "Welcome."

            Galadriel walked over to her father, and they embraced each other.  Then she looked at Olwë, smiled, and hugged him as well.  Last she turned to Ingwë, and though she hesitated first, she ended up throwing her arms around the High King and holding on to him longer than the rest.  Ingwë laughed, remembering how energetic she had been as a child and how ready she had always been to shower an old man with affection.  Even though she was not as closely related to him as the other two, he loved her just as much.

            "We have missed you, Artanis," Ingwë said when his great-niece let go of him.

            "I have missed you all, too," she replied.  "I am so glad we are meeting again, though I wish it were under different circumstances."

            The three kings nodded.  As pleased as they were to see her,  they would have much preferred it to be in the bliss of Valinor and not the aftermath of the greatest battle there would ever be until the unmaking of the world.

            "Come, let us sit," Olwë said, motioning to a pair of benches against one side of the tent.

            They made their way over to the benches.  Finarfin and Galadriel sat down on one, and Olwë and Ingwë on the other.  "Tell us, dear Artanis," said Ingwë, "how have your spent your years in these lands?"

            "The years have been long and weary, full of grief and despair," she said softly.  Then she gave a small smile.  "But not all has been darkness.  I have found joy here that would never have come to me in Aman."

            Her fingers began playing with the ends of the cloak.

            Olwë and Finarfin looked at each other.

            "And my name is no longer Artanis," she continued.  "Another name has been given to me, and it is by this name that I will be known to the world: Galadriel."

            Olwë chuckled.  "Artanis and Nerwen were not enough for you?  You must take on a third name as well?"

            Her only response to this was a smile.

            "Where did you dwell?" Ingwë asked.  "Surely you must be a queen by now."

            "Not yet, I'm afraid," Galadriel said.  "I have dwelt for brief times in many places, but most of my time was spent in the land of Doriath; realm of Elu Thingol."

            "Elwë?" Olwë said breathlessly.  "You dwelt with him?"

            Galadriel nodded.  "Yes; there were many in Doriath that became dear to my heart.  What of Queen Melian?  I left Doriath several years before she departed after Thingol's death, and I have not seen her since."

            Finarfin and Ingwë both looked to Olwë; he, as the brother of Melian's husband and therefore the closest to her, and could answer that question better than either of them could.  The Teler's face darkened, and his voice was soft as he spoke.  "Melyanna is not well," he said.  "She speaks to few save Vána and Estë, and even they cannot comfort her.  Olórin has tried many times to persuade her to go to Nienna, but she will not.  She spends her time in the gardens of Lórien, wasting away with her grief.  She loved Elwë dearly, and his death is killing her as well."

            Galadriel closed her eyes and nodded.  She knew well of the great love between Melian and Thingol, and when word reached her ears of his death, she knew Melian would not take it well.

            "Perhaps it will bring her comfort if she were to see you again," Ingwë said.

            Galadriel smiled, but her smile was not genuine, Finarfin noticed, and this sparked curiosity in his heart.  She wasn't telling them something, but what could it be?

            "Melyanna will not be the only one glad to see you," Finarfin said.  "There is Eärwen and Indis, and Amarië… she will be grieved to hear of Finrod's death, but to see you alive…"

            Galadriel's face darkened at those words, and her three kinsmen noticed immediately.  "Is something wrong?" Olwë asked.

            She did not answer, but they sensed what was coming.

            "You… you _will_ be returning to Valinor with us, will you not?" Ingwë said.

            She turned her head away, refusing to look at any of them.  "I am very sorry," she said quietly, "but I cannot leave this land."

            "What?" Finarfin exclaimed in a rare showing of his fiery Noldor half, turning his head toward his daughter.  His brow was creased with shock, and his eyes were frantic.  "But… but you _must_ come back!  The pardon of the Valar includes you, too!  Do not tell me you are still too proud to refuse this."

            "I am the last that remain of the leaders of the Exiles," Galadriel pointed out.  "The Valar may forgive, but what of the other Elves?  Both the Noldor and Vanyar were disgraced on my account, and the Teleri…"  She stopped.  There was nothing that needed to be said about the Teleri.

            "You fought _against_ the Kinslaying," Olwë said.

            "I allied myself with those who slaughtered the innocent," Galadriel said, her voice losing a noticeable amount of its strength.  "I deserve no pardon."

            Finarfin's mind was racing.  She was refusing the pardon of the Valar?  She would not be returning with them?  After all these years, after all the suffering, after all the time their family was divided, she was turning away from the one chance they had to reunite?

            The king of the Noldor stood up and cried, "I will _not_ leave you here to die like your brothers!"

            "Death is not the only thing this land holds!" Galadriel said, looking up at her father.  "There is life also!  Honor, power, hope, friendship, love – I have found all of these here!"

            Ingwë and Olwë exchanged a glance and remained silent.

            Finarfin's outburst surprised them all, but none more than Finarfin himself.  He let out a long sigh and sat down again, placing a hand on Galadriel's arm.  "Forgive me," he said.  "I just cannot understand why you would wish to remain here."  She had changed less than he thought.

            "I do miss my the land of my birth," she admitted, "but I cannot return.  There is still much that remains for me here."

            "All you desire can be found in Aman," Ingwë said.  "You are the only child of the king."

            Galadriel sighed and looked at her father.  "Atar… there is someone you should meet."

            Finarfin and Galadriel took their leave of Ingwë and Olwë and began to make their way through the camp.  Galadriel did not tell her father who she was taking him to see, and when he asked, she dodged the question by attracting the attention of a passing Elf; a tall, dark-haired individual with a noble bearing.  He seemed slightly familiar to Finarfin, and he found out why when she introduced them: he was Erenion Gil-galad, the son of Fingon and grandson of Fingolfin, and therefore his great-nephew.  They could not speak long; Gil-galad was on his way to meet one of his scouts and could not linger.  They parted, and Galadriel continued to lead her father through the camp.  The subject of where she was taking him did not arise again.

            He noticed that she was leading him toward the Telerin part of the encampment, and this startled him.  She wanted him to meet someone, apparently, but who?  And more importantly, why?  And why one of the Teleri?  Finarfin was no stranger to this race.  There was little chance she was taking him to someone he did not already know.

            They stopped when they reached a large circle encompassed by the white tents of the Teleri.  They mingled in and out of the tents, delivering food, water, and medical supplies to each other.  None that he could see looked seriously injured to Finarfin; after all, the majority of the battle had been fought by the Valar, but the armies of the Elves fought valiantly against the soldiers of the enemy.  Few of them took notice of the two golden-haired Noldor walking through their numbers.

            One, however, did.

            He had the silver hair, noble stature, and fair face of the Teleri, but there was something foreign about the elf lord kneeling down next to an injured soldier seated on a crate.  He was wrapping the soldier's arm with a cloth and smiling at him, assuring him that the wound was not serious and that everything would be fine.  The soldier thanked him, stood, and walked away.  He watched the soldier for a moment, then turned his grinning face in their direction.  His smile grew even wider when he saw them, and he rose to his feet.  Finarfin was surprised; he was certain he knew all the Telerin lords, and he had never seen this one before.

            He looked at his daughter, wondering if it was some mistake.  When Galadriel strode over to the stranger and embraced him tightly, Finarfin knew there was none.

            Finarfin looked at Galadriel, at her companion, then back at Galadriel again.  Surprised was etched into every curve and contour of his fair face.  He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but he could form no words.

            "Atar," Galadriel said, "this is Prince Celeborn of Doriath."

            Finarfin was still losing his battle to find words.

            Galadriel looked at Celeborn.  "Celeborn, this is my father, Finarfin, son of Finwë, and king of the Noldor in Aman."

            Celeborn smiled at Finarfin and bowed his head respectively.  "It is an honor to finally meet you," he said.  "I have heard much of you."

            Finally able to speak again, Finarfin said, "I regret that I am unable to say the same of you."

            Celeborn's smile became constricted.

            "You are Telerin, are you not?" Finarfin guessed.

            "Sindar," Celeborn corrected.  "I was born in the realm of King Elu Thingol not long before the rising of the sun."

            Finarfin's mind was reeling.  They were in love.  They had to be.  The way they stood, with their bodies angled toward each other, how they kept glancing at each other out of the corners of their eyes, and how their fingertips touched every few moments gave that much away.  Was this Celeborn one of the factors in her decision to stay behind?  Anger began to build up in the king's heart.  Who was this Sinda to take away the only child he had left?

            "Who was that soldier you were tending to?" Galadriel asked Celeborn.

            "His name is Tyelcamë," Celeborn answered.  "An orc-blade cut his arm in the battle.  I found him trying to treat it himself and offered my assistance."  Then he sighed.  "The hearts of the Teleri are valiant, but their hands have not fought many battles."

            "There has never been the need," Finarfin said.  "The peaceful people of Aman rarely take up arms."

            "I wish that were so here," Celeborn said softly.  He was no stranger to either war or death.

            Galadriel placed her hand on his arm.  He covered his hand with hers, and they smiled at each other.

            Finarfin's stomach tied itself into a knot of dread.  It would be next to impossible to persuade her to leave now.  And to ask Celeborn to come with them was unthinkable.  This was his land, where his heart and where his people were.  Finarfin could no more ask Celeborn to go to Valinor than he could Eärwen, Ingwë, Olwë, or anyone else to come to Middle-earth.  Galadriel had clearly made her choice, but no matter what, her heart would be divided.

_            Unless Celeborn lets her go._

"I must stay here for him, Atar," Galadriel said, looking at her father.  "He is part of my life now, and I am a part of his.  I love him."

            "Are you…"  Finarfin could barely bring himself to say the word.  "… married?"

            "No," his daughter answered, "but we will be.  Very soon."

            "Within the next few months," Celeborn added.

            Galadriel nodded.  "Gil-galad's people have already begun to settle in the land west of the Ered Luin," she said.  "He has given us permission to dwell there with him.  We will be married as soon as there is some semblance of order in that land."

            Finarfin wanted to be happy for them.  He did.  But he could not.  For six hundred years, he lived in doubt, not knowing if his children were safe or even alive.  Now she was the only one left, and eventually this world was sure to claim her as well.  Should he throw himself into the sea and drown in hopes that they would one day meet again in the Halls of Mandos?  And what to tell Eärwen?  She had been so afraid for them.  What would she think when he told her that their sons were dead and their daughter refused to come home?  Valinor had been unable to contain Galadriel's ambition before, but Finarfin felt she would be able to find satisfaction there now.  He was the king now, and he was certain he would one day grow tired of ruling and pass rule of the Noldor onto another.  She would be his heir.  Isn't that what she always wanted?  Why would she give that up?

            "Celeborn," Finarfin said firmly, "I would to speak with you."  The Sindarin prince seemed reasonable enough.  Maybe he would understand.  "Alone."

            Celeborn agreed to this.  Finarfin began looking around for somewhere to go, but Galadriel said, "No, I will leave."  She unfastened the silver brooch of the rich blue velvet cloak she was wearing.  "Sí, nîn melethron," she said, placing the cloak around his shoulders.

            "Will you not be cold?" he asked.

            "I will get mine," she replied, fastening the brooch and then smoothing out some of the folds.  She planted a quick kiss on his lips, then took their leave of them, silently praying to the Valar that Finarfin would not do anything irrational.

            "She is pleased to see you," Celeborn said quietly when Galadriel was out of earshot.  "I have not seen her this happy in years."

            "Nor have I," Finarfin replied.  "But I have not seen her at all in many years."

            Celeborn was no fool.  He knew at once what Finarfin was going to discuss with him, and he knew it would be no easy task to reason with the king.  "I love her."

            "As do I," Finarfin said, secretly admiring Celeborn for being straightforward.  "But she is my child, the only one I have left.  If you have a child of your own someday, then maybe you will understand.  She has a chance for another life in Valinor, and she is giving it up for you."

            "Not _only_ for me," said Celeborn.

            Finarfin was struggling to keep his frustration hidden.  The last thing he wanted was to lose control, especially in front of the embodiment of that which was pushing him so far.  He stiffened his posture and looked Celeborn in the eyes.  The Sinda was the taller of the two, but not by much.  "You are all that she cannot find in Valinor," he said.  "Please, let her go.  It is her home, and we are her people.  She belongs with us.  Would you deny a father his child?"

            "Would you deny a husband his wife?"

            "She is _not_ your wife."

            "She _will_ be," Celeborn said, a flash of anger appearing in his dark eyes, "and if by your will, hers, or fate's, if we are separated, I will never stop loving her and my grief will never fade."

            Finarfin had nothing to say to this, and a silence descended upon them that was broken by Celeborn a few moments later.  "Listen to us," he said with a sigh.  "Arguing over her fate when it is hers to decide."

            Finarfin closed his eyes tightly and clenched his fists.  It was easy for Celeborn to say that.  She had chosen him.  _My will is as strong as yours, Celeborn of Doriath_, Finarfin thought.  _I will not yield my thoughts_.

            "She did not come to this decision lightly," Celeborn continued.  "When word reached us of the army of the west and that you were in their numbers, she expressed a great desire to return to Valinor with you."

            Finarfin opened his eyes and relaxed his fists.  "And you persuaded her otherwise?"

            "No.  I told her to not let me influence the path she would take."  A pained expression crossed his face, and he looked away.  "I am certain she is standing by me here and now instead of with you because she swore she would stay with me."

            "Then if you love her," Finarfin said, "then have her renounce this oath and come with me."

            "And if _you_ love her, honor her choice, as I would had she chosen you."

            _But she didn't choose me_, Finarfin thought, _and you cannot comprehend what I feel now_.

            Galadriel returned then, wearing an elegant white cloak trimmed with fur.  "May I join you?" she asked.

            "I have nothing further to say," Finarfin said, then turned and began to walk away.

            Galadriel watched her father go, but turned to Celeborn instead of following him.  "What did he say?"

            "He is grieved that you are remaining here," Celeborn answered.  He took her hands, kissed them and said, "Perhaps you _should_ go with him."

            "No," she replied.  "He is my father, and all my family is in Aman, but my love and my life is in this land.  He is my past, but you are my future."

            They kissed, and when it ended, Celeborn said, "You should go to him.  Spend as much time with him as you can before…"

            She nodded.  "I will."

            She went to his tent, but he was not there, and Ingwë and Olwë said he had not yet returned.  Galadriel searched the nearby tents and asked around the Noldor camp, but none of them had seen Finarfin since he left with her toward the Teleri.  She was beginning to lose hope.  Where could he have gone?  Had he forsaken her so soon?

            Then, an idea came to her.  She made her way toward the edges of the camp, and sure enough, there he was, seated on the very rock on which he had been when he first saw her.  His elbows were on his knees and his face in his hands.  She tried not to make a sound as she approached him, but it was to no avail; he looked up, saw her, and turned his head away.

            There was room on the rock for one more.  She sat down next to him and placed her hand on his arm.  "Atar…"

            He looked at her.  His blue eyes were glazed with tears.  "Ná varna, hinya."

            She smiled and gave him her word.  "And I will return," she added, "when it is time."

            _When it is time_, the broken king of the Noldor thought to himself as he embraced the last of his children.  _When it is time_.

            That time was not now.  But it would come someday.  And when it did, he would be ready.

~-~-~-~

Translations:

Atar – Quenya; "father"

Sí, nîn melethron – Sindarin; lit. "here, my male lover"

Ná varna, hinya – Quenya; "be safe, my child"

I'm not absolutely certain on those.  Purists, please don't chop me into tiny pieces and bury me in the wall or anything like that.  :o)

Also, I decided to make Celeborn and Galadriel unmarried at this time because in one of the books, Tolkien wrote that the Eldar can tell immediately when another is married and it was supposed to be a surprise.  If you understood that sentence or the logic behind it, you're doing better than I am.

Please let me know what you think!


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